The Scariest Thing

Lydia had done her fair share of haunting over the several centuries she had been incarcerated in Whitebrick Hall, the country manor of some anonymous Georgian family. She had seen off D’Arcy D’Innocent, the ghost of a highwayman who had tried to muscle in on her patch as well as having successfully managed to terrify a string of human tenants to the point where the building had lain empty for generations.

But now she was bored. Only a true ghost could understand that drifting along the endless empty corridors and through the unpapered walls of the building in her bloodstained nightdress was somehow utterly unsatisfying. At times, she would become so lonely and depressed that she would give out a ghostly wail but the noise only managed to set the cauldron of bats to wittering as they flapped their leather-like wings and rustled around the attic, unwilling to leave their haunt in the daylight.

Of all the rooms in the manor, Lydia loved the main lounge the best. It had a huge picture window that looked out onto the garden, where the lawns and once beautiful flowerbeds were now tired and overgrown, while on the opposite wall, there was an original left a full-length, gilt edged mirror. There were chips and scratches and part of the tin foil and mercury backing had surrendered to time but so what. It was ideal for Lydia. At dusk she would stand outside the room and wait until she felt the moonlight arrive in the lounge. Then, with a swirl of her nightdress and the agonised cry of an amateur actress, she would drift through the wall and into the lounge. There, as she passed through the river of moonlight streaming in by the window, her entire body would scintillate and be revealed in the mirror. She revelled in those moments for they were the only times she actually managed to see herself, to remember what she had once looked like. Back and forth, round and round, she would go, ignoring the obvious wound and the damage that had been done to her, until the moon passed on, leaving the ghost of Lydia a mere wisp of motion disturbing the dust in the air. At last, alone, she would once more wail and set the bats to panicking again.

On the rare nights when the moon was about to be reborn and clouds were close and heavy, masking the ground, Lydia would venture out into the tumbledown conservatory, the only time she dared leave the manor proper. Through the gaps in the glass wall, she could see nature reclaiming the land and buildings that once were all part of the estate. And, far off, those terrible, terrible, ruined stables. But she would never let her mind settle there. Some pains would always remain fresh and the worst pain never seemed to age at all. If a ghost could sob, then Lydia would sob before hurrying back into the security of the main building. She did not know why she felt compelled to cause herself such suffering or why, for a month, she would forget. Only to find herself back in the conservatory at the time of the next new moon. After each episode, to comfort herself, she would try drifting through the wall of the main lounge but, without moonlight, it brought only despair.

Then, on that fateful Spring day, everything changed for the worst. Men came, lots of men, with hammers and machines and nails and paint and brushes and window frames and toilet seats and Lydia dared not try to scare them. There were just too many. Instead, she flitted from cupboard to shadows, under the curving stairs, room through wall to room and only relaxed at night, after the men had left. She travelled the house, inspecting their work, not that she understood any of it. After all, her life as a housemaid had revolved around cleaning the rooms, not repairing or renovating them. The work went on for months and Lydia grew nonchalant about the whole business. She still flitted about, hiding, but somehow did not put as much effort into it as perhaps a ghost should. And then it was done. In a flurry of packing all the men loaded themselves and their equipment onto lorries and were gone. Lydia was alone once more. She did not like it. She had got used to the bustling ways of strangers, they gave her mind something to play with. And now, nothing!

Some weeks later, with early October winds besieging the branches and punishing the leaves off trees, the stream of vehicles arrived. Lydia drifted down the stairs, invisible in the daylight, to meet the visitors. If she liked them enough, perhaps they would stay and let her appear, now and then, as ghosts do. Just a few times, enough to ease the boredom and, she promised herself, she would never again be too scary. Lydia had finally become reconciled to the idea of balance. Equality between the living and the dead. The front door was unlocked and opened with hiss. The ghost hovered amazed as people trooped slowly in. There were pale green or blue uniforms and people with sticks and one leg or one arm or sitting in chairs with wheels on. And, apart from the people in uniforms, they were all so…so…very…old! Lydia was confused. What kind of people were these? What did they do? What had they done? Why were they here? Then she noticed a brand new sign in the hallway. It read,

“Welcome to Whitebrick Hall. Luxury Care And Nursing Home For The Elderly.”

But of course it meant nothing to Lydia. Why would anyone even dream of teaching an eighteenth century Georgian housemaid to read? She only needed to know how to do her work properly, not to read about it. As curious as only a ghost can be, one hesitates to call her nosey, Lydia followed one group of the people to find out what they were actually intending to do. One after another, they were leading the elderly to separate rooms and helping them unpack.

“They are staying! Ludhavemercy!” she whispered to herself and then wondered why she used that phrase, after all she had been a ghost for far too long with no sign, so far, of a lord, or an almighty, merciful or otherwise. When the elderly were all settled, the uniforms set to, arranging their own rooms. These all appeared to be larger and better furnished. Lydia drifted through the manor, shadow to shadow, with infinite care, watching, just watching and slowly beginning to formulate a plan, something that would work for both sides. Sort of haunting with friends, or haunting for fun or both sides bridging the mysterious river of change.

Weeks passed while Lydia pondered and the new occupants settled into their routines. Old Bill Williams, the ex-submariner, for example, was one of several walkers. That was all he did. Walk. He couldn't keep still. After two spoonfuls of his breakfast or lunch he was up and away, interminably chattering to himself. To feed him, the uniforms would put various items of food, a sausage or sandwich, into his hand and let him munch while travelling the length of his unfathomable journey. Although the old man’s body would or could not slow down, his eyes appeared to have given up. If they saw anything or anyone, they did not register it. Old Bill walked the length of every corridor, into any room, into walls and smack into other people. He was not blind, he had been tested for that. He was just, somehow, no longer completely in tune with the physical world. He fascinated the housemaid, Lydia. She would follow him on his non-stop travels, always attempting but failing to make sense of his chattered warnings, wondering why he could not be still. She even stood by his bed while he slept and watched his hands and feet shiver and shake, like a dog dreaming of a meal that had to be chased and caught. Eventually, with a ghostly sigh, she would drift off through the nearest wall and start her nightly meandering.

At last Lydia let herself be seen, at first by a lady resident who was confined to a chair in the lounge. The ghost flickered into visibility in the weak autumn sunlight, waited a moment then moved on. The resident seemed to ignore her so Lydia moved back into the light beams and just stood.

“‘Allo, dearie, what’s your name then?” murmured the old lady.

The uniform on the far side of the room stirred and looked up from the magazine she was reading. Lydia quickly stepped sideways, out of the light and so, out of sight.

“You know my name,” said the person inhabiting the uniform. “I’ve told you ten times already. It’s Louisa.”

She sounded exasperated. The old lady in the chair answered with a faint chuckle,

“No, not you, silly! The other lady.”

“Don’t you call me silly! There’s no one else in the room, Dorothea. No one, you hear?”

Lydia thought the uniform, the Louisa person, was acting rather harshly towards the old lady. It was not right! She stepped back into the light beam a mere yard or so from Louisa.

“Oooohhhh!” she wailed in her best haunting voice and then disappeared.

The uniform crumpled as Louisa fainted. Dorothea just cackled and clapped her gnarled hands whilst rocking backwards and forwards in her seat. She could not begin to imagine how the carer was going to explain this situation but it would be hilarious just watching her try.

Two nights later saw the moon rise late, as if it was having trouble dragging its huge belly over the horizon. It was a great ponderous full moon, pockmarked and scarred and yet as strangely romantic as ever. Lydia trembled in anticipation. Tonight would be the best night of the year! The night when the moonlight stayed longest and the ghost could dance in its embrace and watch herself in the mirror once again. For hours… She stepped through the wall, pirouetting perfectly into the light and began her dance, the famous courtship of the elementals. Her back was turned when the door opened and Old Bill entered. He may have simply been disturbed from his sleep and then taken to walking as always or, somehow, he may have discovered sleepwalking. It mattered not for he walked across the room, straight through the light and straight through Lydia. When he bumped into the far wall he had no option but to turn back. Part way across the floor, the old man stopped dead in his tracks. He was facing the mirror and there, with a totally astonished look on her face was Lydia. Bill looked in front of himself. The room was empty. He looked back at the mirror matching his gaze to that of the beautiful young lady. They both tried to speak but no sound broke the silence that stretched out around them.

Another movement caught Bill’s eye. His own reflection in the mirror but it was wearing a frock coat and riding boots. Confused, he inspected his own body. Striped pyjamas and cartoon slippers and… he was holding a yellow plastic sign: caution, wet floor. It was large and heavy and where had that come from and why? He looked back at the mirror. Frock coat, boots and, yes, he was holding something. O God! An axe! Bill remained frozen but his reflection, not his reflection, started towards Lydia. She screamed and, removing her head, placed it under her arm where she could hold it tight and safe. Then she ran, out of the mirror, out of the light, through the nearest wall and so out of the room. The male reflection swung his axe petulantly from side to side. He was irritated. Bill truly did not know what was happening but was certain of one thing. Despite the reflections in the mirror, he was alone in the lounge. That thought slowed his racing heart, if only a little. He returned his gaze to the mirror. It was empty. Completely empty. Even he was not there. But the man with the axe had stepped out and was slowly approaching Bill. The old man’s knees began to shake. The axe glittered and Bill soiled his pyjamas. The reflected man signalled, down! Bill dropped to his knees, bowed his head and burst into tears.

Louisa opened the door, reached out and flipped the switch, flooding the lounge with harsh electric light. The old man was alone, kneeling in the centre of the room, sobbing.

“Bill,” she called out. There was very little warmth in her voice. “What the devil are you doing?”

She started towards the man and suddenly stopped. The temperature in the room had dropped violently. She squinted. Something strange was happening, something…unreal…

A thin red line appeared across the back of Bill’s neck. It became a gap, then widened. The man’s head separated from his body, twisted slightly as it fell forward to bounce once and then lay still. Louisa’s eyes rolled back in shock as she fainted once more. When she was roughly woken, there was an axe by Bill’s body, lots of dark blue uniforms, police, she quickly realised and she had been handcuffed. Lost in the shadows outside the window, the ghost of the stableman felt only slightly pleased. Three hundred years and he still had not managed to finish the business with Lydia but he would, one day, he would. At least, tonight, he had managed to exercise the muscles in his powerful right arm.